


a throne befitting a king

by xxELF21xx



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: M/M, Throne Sex, Unreliable Narrator, idk what else to tag help me, me im the unreliable one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26121484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxELF21xx/pseuds/xxELF21xx
Summary: It’s been three weeks, and that’s all it takes for Green to take one step forward and Red two steps back.
Relationships: Ookido Green | Blue Oak/Red
Comments: 17
Kudos: 58





	a throne befitting a king

**Author's Note:**

> the summary sounds angsty but it's not;)

...It’s been years since he’s set foot in the lonely throne room. Cool marble and steel-lined pillars set a vast, cold scene, and the granite throne situated directly in the middle -- right in front of him -- beckons him like an old friend. 

Except they’re not, really. Friends.

Fit for a king, but not for Green. His whole Pokemon journey was a turbulent ride that he’d long to forget, lock it up deep inside him and never mention again. Being eleven, panicked, and claiming the awful seat was his worst mistake. 

Nothing exudes comfort in this room, spacious but tight, with the ceiling high above him and the pillars packed so closely together there no room to hide. How does anyone do anything in this room? The Champion before him left immediately after being defeated before Green could catch a name.

Maybe all this is why they’d fled so fast. 

‘What do you need me for?’ He shakes away the discomfort as shoes scuff the floor, flinching at scratches lining the tiles. If given the choice, he would never want to return to the Plateau. ‘A battle? You seem to be getting rusty, old man.’

Lance throws a pokeball at him, intent on causing a concussion, but he catches it with ease (his palm stings, but nobody needed to know). ‘I’m not that old.’ 

‘Very mature,’ he snorts, releasing (most presumably) Lance’s newest dratini, an energetic little thing that is more than happy to curl up in his jacket. ‘So, what’s up?’ 

The uncharacteristic pause in the usually confident man sways his own nonchalant attitude, causing him to inch closer when the room’s ice has seeped into his skin. Why couldn’t they just talk in the lobby, like normal people? (Because Lance is a drama king first, Elite Four second.)

And also, apparently, a gentleman. 

Without a second glance, Lance throws his cape over Green’s shoulders, securing it with a giant emerald in place of the usual gold clasp. Green raises a brow at the gesture, but gets nothing other than a shrug. 

‘Nobody likes being here, least of all you.’ Like that was an appropriate explanation. ‘We’re just waiting on-- ‘

One of the great doors -- the noisier one, with a loose hinge -- groans open, effectively ending their conversation. A haggard Red steps out from the shadows, eyes downcast and troubled, shoes squeaking as he makes his way forward. 

It was as if he was eleven all over again. 

‘Are you still cold? We can move the discussion elsewhere,’ his attention snaps back to Lance, shaking his head before he could process anything.  _ We could have been talking in the lobby?!  _

Red’s stare pierces straight through his skull, discomfort growing leaps and bounds. Shuddering, he shies into Lance’s shadow, focusing on the dratini fast asleep in his jacket instead of the blatant glaring he’s getting.  _ What did I do?!  _

‘Well, now that you’re both here,’ Lance slaps him on the back, sending him stumbling into the harsh light (that old man better fucking  _ watch out _ ). ‘We were thinking of redesigning the interior for the Elite Four and Champion’s chambers. We’ve already discussed what ours should look like, so this room is the only one left. Since you’re both recognised as Kanto’s Champions, I’d like to hear your thoughts.’

_ Finally,  _ an interior design change. ‘You could just knock down this whole room. I hate it.’ Red hasn’t stopped glaring; seriously, what’s his problem? ‘This whole room is bathed in depression, less of that, please.’ 

He continues blathering on, watching Lance get more and more frustrated with his senseless words while completely ignoring the donphan in the room. Sometimes, he picks up on Red’s unease and voices them, other times he pretends he doesn’t know and lets Lance guess. 

Oddly enough, Red hasn’t uttered a single word to him. 

It’s probably the tense atmosphere this stupid room gives off. He brushes off the uneasiness and settles into a ruthless banter with the so-called Dragon Master about how the ceiling should look like (a glass pyramid-dome for him, a flat boring packed-earth for Lance) until they run out of steam and called it a day. 

Lance rushes off, citing an emergency with one of his dragonites (always his dragonites), bidding the both of them farewell. Which leaves Green in his current situation: still wearing Lance’s cape, with one of Lance’s dratini coiled around his arm. 

‘Oi!’ He takes a step towards the doors, intent on chasing after Lance, but Red tugs his arm sharply. Green falls into the throne, shoulder colliding roughly against the backrest, irritated. ‘Red, what the fuck is wrong with you?!’ He barely conceals his frustration, eyes flickering upwards to drill holes into the other man’s head. 

Instead of a reply, Red jabs an offending finger at the cape then to the scared dratini, amplifying his frustration with a particularly hard glare. 

‘It’s cold!’ He can’t even wiggle his way out of the seat with Red standing so close to him. ‘I was gonna return them to him but  _ you _ \--’ he pokes Red’s chest --’stopped me!’ Red doesn’t budge, somehow more upset than before. 

Bending down, Red invades his little bubble, face uncomfortably close to his own. In a swift tug, the cape is thrown to a farside of the room, an embarrassing noise escaping him in the meantime. Not stopping there, Red unzips Green’s jacket with one hand and procures the pokeball in Green’s pocket with another, returning the dratini into its ball before shrinking it and placing it on the floor beside them. 

‘Was that what was bothering you?’ Green’s voice is impossibly flat. ‘Really?’

Red pouts, manhandling him into the infamous red vest, determined. ‘What are you doing?’ Green’s voice  _ does not  _ tremble as the other man disappears from his bubble and sinks onto the floor, chin resting atop his thighs. 

Oh,  _ Arceus,  _ nobody had the fucking right to look this cute  _ and  _ menacing at the same time. 

Groaning, he thunks his head against the godawful granite, coming to the very late conclusion: ‘you’re  _ jealous.’  _

Quietly, almost embarrassed, ‘yes.’

‘I hate you.’

He should’ve known what those three words could do to Red, startled out of breath when the man lunges up at him, hands slamming next to his head. 

He would forever deny that he’s trembling, blood buzzing beneath his skin as the anticipation and dread climb high. A finger traces the side of his face, a familiar gesture long forgotten in the months and months apart, wracking shivers as it goes. Heavy eyes droop to the curve of his nose, the arch of his cupid’s bow, the dip in his collarbones… 

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he breathes, fingers jumpy. Red hums, dipping down to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, knee resting precariously in the area between his thighs. Without the added warmth from Lance’s cape, Green gravitates closer to Red, cheeks hot. 

They shouldn’t do this here. Not where anyone in the Plateau could just walk in.

He tries to repeat that line of thought, but words escape him the very moment Red’s teeth scrape his neck. Sucking in a hissing breath, his body involuntarily scrambles upright, and though he  _ wants  _ to move away and tell Red to  _ fuck off-act proper-we’re in public, _ he  _ can’t.  _ Every drop of his jaw betrays his innermost desire, breathy gasps escaping in place of admonishes and proper sentences. 

Red, for the most part, looks a tad too comfortable in the awkward position he’s holding, playfully nipping and kitten licking until Green turns into putty, too incoherent and horny to rationalise -- because that’s what he  _ does;  _ the bastard loves riling Green up to the point of instinct. 

It doesn’t take long for him to crack, what used to be hairline splinters in their younger years now a giant canyon, gales carving their way through the gap. Green doesn’t so much as  _ blink  _ when he’s manhandled into sitting atop Red, warmth flooding his back and reaching his ears so fast it makes him dizzy. 

‘Hi,’ Red whispers, joyful and mischievous and _ oh,  _ Green wants so much to deck him right now. The drastic change in temperature -- suddenly blanketed by fire in the midst of the lonely room -- drowns him in shivers; anticipation, embarrassment,  _ desire.  _ ‘Hi,’ Red repeats again, biting the juncture of his neck and shoulders softly, eliciting a yelp, ‘are you okay?’ 

_ Dick.  _

‘N-no,’ he squirms, knowing full well the frustration building up in Red, waiting for the overflow and eventual tipping over. He doesn’t say more, fingernails digging into the uncomfortable armrests (ha, would you look at that, velvet on  _ oak)  _ and begging, waiting,  _ wanting  _ Red to do something, anything.

It works, as always, because he’s as much of a bastard (if not, more) as much as Red was. The very moment he stops moving, Red’s hand, blessedly-cursedly warm and large, slides from Green’s back and dips between his legs, undoing his zipper and-and- _ and  _ past his briefs. 

Green  _ knows  _ what will happen, has been through it hundreds-thousands-millions of times, yet his body still reacts as if it’s his first time (and it’s always embarrassing) and forces him to curl into himself, a hand slapping harshly over his lips as mewls tumble out, muscles screaming to  _ hide-hide-hide-someone can see!  _

And he knows that Red absolutely hates his initial reaction, freezing up ever-so-slightly before relaxing once more. Red hates how Green, motormouth and witty anytime else, muffles his cries during sex. Red hates how Green shies away from individual attention, how he’s always a touch colder than everyone else, how he’d leech onto anyone who stayed just a second longer, how he’s completely (not) fine on his own. 

It’s been three weeks, and that’s all it takes for Green to take one step forward and Red two steps back. 

‘Do you still hate this?’ shouldn’t feel like lingering electricity crackling after a strike of lightning. But it does, and Green  _ craves  _ it,  _ wants  _ more. ‘No,’ his voice is shaky, determined and undoubtedly dripping with unsaid filth, ‘Red,  _ Red.’  _

And that’s all it takes for the glass to overflow, tip and  _ shatter.  _

**Author's Note:**

> a terrible attempt at writing sex, if i do say so myself. part 2 will be up soon!


End file.
